


Will You Love Me When It's Over?

by ToMarsAndBeyond3



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: DGHDA Valentine's Mini Bang, Fluff, I'm Sorry, It's Unclear, Just maybe, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Trans! Dirk, and make a plot, brotzly fluff, i have a vague idea of a plot for this, i might continue this, i'll edit this one day my dudes, just fluff and backstory, kinda plotless, like legit, rowdy family time, so maaaaaaaaaybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 20:36:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToMarsAndBeyond3/pseuds/ToMarsAndBeyond3
Summary: A question unanswered.A name unsaid.A doctor from the past.Dirk Gently doesn't know what to do when Todd asks him that dreaded question, the inquiry of who Mr. Priest really is. And it is that question that prompts the universe not only to answer that question for him, but to bring together the people who would know best. The doctor meets the patient, and the patient confronts the looming figures from his past as to why they never helped him.





	Will You Love Me When It's Over?

**Author's Note:**

> smdnfjs?

“Who is Mr. Priest?”

It was a question that had burning in Todd’s mind for quite some time, though he never dared to utter the words. Todd was wary of the way Dirk’s face would twist when he suspected that Todd wanted to bring it up, the way his breathing quickened at even the thought of the other agents. But there was an image that haunted Todd; it followed him everywhere from the bed at night to the office in the late hours of morning, and even while he was running from some alien or another.

Dirk was a loud person, that was just one of the constants of the universe. More than loud, he was expressive.

Todd, well, he loved it.

But when he closed his eyes, it would sneak up on him. That image. Dirk huddled in a corner, his face so terribly expressionless that Todd had been afraid Dirk had stopped existing. It had been a look of pure terror; a look of utter defeat and hopelessness and resignation, and all of it stemming from hearing a voice, a name. It haunted Todd, and all he knew about it to quell the churning in his stomach was who the voice belonged to.

So on that rainy Monday morning when the world was already dreary enough in in itself, when the wind blew all of their hope away in a dry attempt to bring their attention to the weariness of life as the universe saw it, Todd asked Dirk the question.

Oh, but he wished he hadn’t.

Dirk’s face drained of what little color it had in the grey light from the windows, and it turned an odd shade of cream that looked positively awful. Was Dirk sick? But no, Todd didn’t think so; in fact, he saw that face. Dirk’s whole expression started to sink, to fade. But then the empty expression turned to one of horror, betrayal, and Todd didn’t know how to fix his mistake.

“I mean like, he was, there. And I, want to make sure he, isn’t. Again.” Todd tries to smile, his eyes fixated on the way Dirk is looking at him. “Just, because-” Tell the truth. “Because you’re, kind of scared of him. And I don’t know how to help after, nightmares. And stuff.”

“Yes,” Dirk says after a moment. “Well. Nightmares, funny things.”

“Yeah.” Todd nods. It’s wonderful that Dirk isn’t crying, or perhaps going to hide, but now Todd has no idea where to go from here. He’d already started himself down this road though, why not go all the way? “And honestly, he seems like a dick. And you say his fucking name? In your sleep which is, super weird. I can’t help, that’s kind of shitty.”

Dirk stares some more.

Todd stares back, not sure if he had gone too far or not. What if Dirk would never talk the man?

“I don’t know.” Dirk casts his gaze down, and instead studies his hands with an odd intensity that Todd had never seen before. Todd frowned at him, unable to work out the expression on Dirk’s face.

“Dirk-”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m trying to-”

“Shut up.”

Oh.

The word had no malice to it; no bark and no bite. Todd had never heard Dirk’s voice so subdued, and it sent chills down his spine until he was sure he was trembling with them. He had made a mistake.

A big mistake.

“Okay.” Todd nodded slowly, and tried to turn his attention to the insurance forms on his computer screen. They needed to get this done anyway, and it was impossible to come up with a reason you car had been compressed into a pocket sized square without crying alien. “Do, you want some tea? I can make some.”

“No.” Dirk sighed. “No tea. No tea.”

“What?”

“No tea. Tea, no tea.” 

“Dirk, what does that mean?”

Dirk’s eyes widened as he looked up; surprise danced behind his eyes, as if he had expected Todd to know exactly what he had meant. He made a small gesture with his hand, pinching his throat and frowning. Todd took a moment, but he nodded.

“Okay.” Stuck; Dirk was stuck.

“Okay.”

“What about water?” Todd raised an eyebrow. He didn’t mind Dirk and his echolia, though he minded a lot less ever since he had figured out what it was.

Yeah, mentioning Priest had been a bad idea.

“What about water.” Dirk nodded slowly. 

Seconds ticked by and he looked less like a deer in the headlights and more like a very, very lost man. It wasn’t a question, and the hesitant certainty in his tone gave the impression that yes, he wanted water. Todd pushed up out of his chair, and the carpet felt cold under his feet. Who would wear shoes in an office?

How boring that would be.

The water wasn’t cold enough as it pooled into the cup, cooling Todd’s hand through the thin plastic. He reached up above the cooler that Farah had bought, grabbing a few of those obnoxiously neon frozen fruits to cool the drink even further. Why couldn’t Dirk just use regular ice cubes was a question that would get Todd and anyone else who asked absolutely nowhere. The answer, in all it’s extreme oddities that one could discuss for hours on end, could be boiled down to something very simple.

The colors.

Dirk loved having color in his life.

Todd brought over the water, standing still for a moment after placing it on Dirk’s desk. Dirk himself stared at the water for a moment. Another expression crossed his face, giving the impression of someone being tortured.

Confused but accepting that he could do nothing else, Todd went back to his desk, his mind wrapped in the endless circle of mysteries that was Dirk Gently.

 

_A long time ago, but not so long that it was to be entirely forgotten…_

Svlad held a cup of water in his hand, but he did not in fact drink it.

It was warm, the few ice cubes (and by few, there had been maybe one or two; Blackwing wasn’t known for luxury or any sort of standards when it came to the fine dining of offering a cup of water) having melted long ago. The drink didn’t stand much of a chance of staying cool after that, wrapped in Svlad’s palm and held against his chest. It didn’t help that he had a fever, either.

“You have to be more careful,” the doctor said, testing out the syringe in his hand to rid it of any air bubbles. 

“I am, sir, but Mr. Priest-”

“Being careful is important.” For a fraction of a moment, a look of panic crossed the doctor’s face an Svlad started to talk about Priest. “You’re fifteen, I know you have enough hand eye coordination to not trip over the air. I did those tests and physicals myself.”

The word test put the taste of vomit in Svlad’s mouth. This man had no idea what a test entailed. He was an idiot. Perhaps if he were to sit in on a test, just one, then he would be forced off of his high horse (not to say that the doctor could ride horses, or even stomach watching any of the tests. He was a high strung fellow, and certainly not the type to be athletic or condone child abuse, though he did indeed pretend it wasn’t happening all around him). But… no, that was rude of Svlad wasn’t it?

The boy sighed.

“Yes Dr. Mann.”

“Alright, stay still.” The syringe pierced Svlad’s right arm. It twitched a bit at the elongated needle puncturing his skin, but other than that there was no movement at all. How could there be, it was broken.

Broken by Osmund Priest, the neighborhood devil. That was if a neighborhood could be fourty two subjects locked away and treated like cattle; less than cattle, even, more like property. And really, Svlad was sure that if the devil existed, he was much kinder a person than the monster who haunted them all.

If the devil was the personification of evil, the sin of man, then Osmund Priest was the primordial being of absolute terror that existed far before Christianity itself was even a flicker of a thought.

“Okay. Your arm should go numb in a few minutes, don’t panic.”

“I’m not-”

“Svlad.” Dr. Mann sighed. He put the syringe on the table next to the hospital bed, watching Svlad carefully. “So, that was a nasty fall.”

“A fall, yes.” It had been a fall, hadn’t it? Priest had stood behind him, his hand twisting in the little hair he had and slamming him into the wall. Svlad had felt his arm bend backwards as the speed of the impact hit him at full force, and finally he had collapsed. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” Dr. Mann’s hand rested on Svlad’s back. “How’s your arm?”

“Numb, sir.”

“Then I can set it.”

Dr. Mann gave Svlad a smile, though the smile in itself looked especially pained. To be a doctor is to care about your patients, and it could be argued that Dr. Mann didn’t care at all. He lacked that key component od wanting to kick abusers in the face, and even was dating one if anyone cared to look close enough, and in that respect could hardly be called a doctor.

He might have been able to be called a cop, however.

So the smile that Dr. Mann give sent chills down Svlad’s spine, and the shivers made his entire body tremble.

Nevertheless, Svlad nodded, and Dr. Mann’s smile grew wider somehow. Svlad could even believe he really wanted to help. But he wasn’t naive; Svlad knew that would never happen. All Blackwing was good for, in the end, was the pain and degredation of the outcasts of society.

___

 

Todd was a heavy sleeper, and so he wasn’t often awake in the late hours of night, and especially not the early hours of morning. The only times he would be so was when he couldn’t take that initial first step into sleep. Sleep; no, sometimes it just didn’t come easy at all.

Todd sighed, gripping his cup tighter and tighter until his knuckles were white. The water was lukewarm, putting a bad taste in his mouth.

Disgusting.

His eyes landed on the bed just past the open bedroom door. While Todd was a heavy sleeper, Dirk was the polar opposite. It was a learned behavior, but there were a few sounds that could bring him into the land of the waking in mere seconds. Boots clicking on the floor as they walked by; the sound of a door unlatching; breath on his neck and light shining across his eyes.

Learned behaviors, that’s what they were.

So when Dirk slept, he was still as a statue. When Todd laid next to him, sometimes he thought he could see the way Dirk’s face twisted, like he was trying to scream. But the next moment the expression would be gone, and Todd would settle again. When Todd heard a small sound come from the bed, he put the warm cup of water away without hesitation.

“Dirk?” Todd’s voice was soft, and in the darkness he saw Dirk’s eyes blink open.

“Doctor Mann?”

Who?

“No-”

“Oh, Todd.” Dirk sat up straight, his eyes wide as he stared at Todd; if one cared to pay attention they might describe it as having their soul laid out on display. “Hello! Um, sorry, I’m simply, dreaming.”

“Who’s Doctor Mann?” Oh yes, because when Todd asked who someone was the last time it had turned out so well. Nevertheless he sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Like, if you don’t mind.”

“A doctor,” Dirk said simply.

How helpful. Truly Dirk was clearly a master of words, an artisan of crafting a prose to move the masses.

“A doctor, cool,” Todd said slowly.

“A good doctor,” Dirk said after a moment. “Not a bad one. Nice, really. Though, I suppose maybe not. Or maybe he was?”

Todd could see the words behind Dirk’s mouth; a floodgate just barely holding back the water. Todd took Dirk’s hand in his own, intertwining their fingers until Todd couldn’t tell where he ended and Dirk begun.

“Do you want to talk about it.”

“I-” Dirk paused, and that soul-reading expression flitted back over his face. “I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s ok-”

“He wasn’t bad.” The words hit Todd in the face like a bullet with the speed in which they came out. “No, not bad at all. A bit odd maybe, a little skittish. No, that’s not right either. Blushy. Not around me! Around Priest. Which again doesn’t strike me as good but it’s not for me to know about so really why am I asking you or even talking about it that’s a little rude don’t you think?” Dirk took a deep breath, Todd’s hand coming to rest on his chest to keep him steady. “No, not bad. Though, he never did anything to help me, and I can’t quite figure out if he hated me or not.”

“No one can hate you.” A small smile started to blossom on Todd’s face; Todd Brotzman’s rough edges couldn’t stay up for long around the flower who called himself Dirk. Dirk himself, well, he smiled back at Todd despite the troubles in his heart.

“Perhaps you can’t,” Dirk said quietly. “No, I think I liked him in the end. When I ran from, that place, he didn’t stop me. He ran into me, I wasn’t very good at paying attention-”

“Still aren’t.”

“Oh hush.” Dirk huffed, squeezing Todd’s hand. “But he looked at me for a moment, and he just went the other way. He didn’t alert the guards on the other side of the door or grab me, and believe me I was not a very strong child-”

“You aren’t a strong adult.”

“It was perhaps the nicest thing he’s ever done for me.” Dirk looked down to where he was holding Todd’s hand. 

Todd watched Dirk sit there for a moment; he couldn’t do this. Todd couldn’t just sit here and let Dirk drown in hatred, in guilt, in-

“Come here.” Todd pulled Dirk forward, wrapping him in one of his warm, famous hugs. Todd was a rather big hugger for someone as constantly angry as himself, and when it came to Dirk, that tendency surely just got worse. “I got you. No matter what.”

“Todd-”

“The world could end. They sky could fucking fall. Those fuckers could show up and try to take you again and I wouldn’t let them. I’m not leaving you.”

Dirk was silent for a moment. Todd couldn’t see his expression, but if he had his smile would have surely grown wider. That was another thing about Todd; he was a smiley bastard whether he admitted it or not, and he would never admit it.

_Another Blast To The Past, otherwise known as somewhere around two decades ago…_

“Mona, why are you a girl?”

Svlad watched his friend with an intense interest he hadn’t before shown, which was exactly why Colenel Riggins, the neighborhood manipulator, had placed him in this room in the first place. Mona looked up from her circle of stuffed animals, hair falling over her eyes and masking the wide-eyed expression she always wore.

“What'd'a you mean,” she asked, turning her focus from her toys to the impossible task of studying the boy known as Svlad.

Though, boy was a relative term. Svlad called himself a boy inside his own head, and the head doctor tended to as well; everyone else, however, tended towards girl and miss and thing and abomination. Svlad didn't mind the last two all that much; it happened all the time and he couldn't stop the staff from seeing him that way. But the girl part…

He didn't like that.

“I mean-” Svlad huffed. “I mean why are you a girl? You were a shoe last week, and before that- And before that you were a stick. But! Before that you weren't a girl at all, you weren't either or. And then, then before that.” Svlad started to slow in his speech. “You were a boy. So, why are you a girl?”

“Because girls get hit less,” Mona said, holding her head high as if this was a universal fact.

“Maybe for you,” Svlad mumbled. He sighed, leaning back to get a better look at Mona. “But, what if I don't want to be a girl?”

“Why not? They're so mean to the boys.” Mona looked up to one of the cameras hidden in a top corner, sticking out her tongue.

“But what if I'm not happy? What if there's something wrong with my body?”

“Then change it.”

“But I can't,” Svlad held out his hands to try and get his point across. “I'm not a shapeshifter. But, but something doesn't feel right. I'm not right.”

“You're what you want,” Mona said softly; though her voice was always soft, and she picked up the stuffed frog in front of her to put in Svlad's outstretched palms. “Little froggy was a wiggly fish. Now froggy is a frog. You're gonna be a frog.”

“I'm just a fish.” Svlad closed his eyes for a moment, but that proved to be a mistake. He saw the face of The Monster flash behind his eyelids, and he opened his eyes as his heart rate spiked. “I don't know how to become a frog.”

“You are, silly.” Mona tapped the edge of Svlad's nose. “You are what you want. Now play Agent with me.”

“Alright, fine.”

Svlad crawled forward, though his heart wanted anything else. Who would want to be an agent? And agent; the scum of the earth that crawled from the depths of hell to torment the innocent.

Svlad was biased of course. There were some subjects, like the older men in Project Incubus or the teenager in Project Mot, that were anything but the innocence that Svlad represented, though of course that didn’t justify the torture or dehumanisation they endured on a daily basis. But Svlad, well, he was an opinionated child with a black and white viewpoint.

Subjects were good.

Agents were bad.

Except of course maybe the doctors.

“Okay. Take the froggy.” Mona gestured to the frog plushie in Svlad’s hand. “And-”

“Project Icarus.” A mechanical voice comes over the loudspeaker, and it fills Svlad’s body with a cold dread. He might be taken back to his room, or perhaps one of those horrid tests; worse so, he might be taken to the monster, and that was the worst way a subject in Blackwing could spend their day. “Project Icarus, stand and await removal from the cell of Project Lamia.”

“Her name, her, it’s Mona!” Svlad slowly rises to his feet, clutching the plushie to his chest. He was going to name it Ot, because that must have been a sensible name to a child.

Teenager; Svlad Cjelli was a teenager. Everybody makes mistakes, even us narrators.

“Await removal from Project Lamia’s cell,” repeated the droning voice.

“But-”

“Await removal from Project Lamia’s cell.”

Well, this robotic drone - crone - had to be the rudest agent Svlad had ever met. He crossed his arms over his chest, both in an indignant act and an attempt to cover it, and glared up at one of the cameras-

Shit.

He cast away his gaze; his face became dusted with a faint pink.

Svlad couldn’t just glare like that, that was more rude than the boring robot woman. It was rude.

Right?

Svlad had no way to fight it, however. He was a child, and while the universe regarded children as wholly powerful and unique individuals that were much more qualified to hold it’s otherworldly powers - adults were madness and trauma and selfishness - Svlad still could do nothing. So he stood there in silence, and he let himself become carried away.

___

 

The powers that be was made up of a genderless, bodiless void that in it’s own right was quite the asshole. This was the opinion of Martin, the eldest member of The Rowdy Three and self proclaimed anarchist. If he ever had the chance to meet the universe, perhaps a personified version of it, he was quite fond of the idea of punching them in the face. Rarely was he a violent man with good people but when it came to those who let, well, who let atrocities happen to children, a nice broken nose might do the trick.

And in a way he was perhaps one of the more trustworthy people the universe had ever created. You could trust him to show up and break something, sure, but there were a few select people that he would risk his life for.

People he had risked his life for, and would gladly do it again.

Martin’s hand stayed steady on the wheel of his van, the visor low to block out the blinding orange light as he drove down the road. In the mirror, his family was visible, each and every one of them exhausted and sleeping. A smile pulled at the edges of Martin’s lips, and he pulled the vehicle faster down the road.

There were figures, faces from his past that haunted him in these rare, quiet moments. In the eye of the blazing sun sitting low on the horizon there were children. Screams ripped from their throats until Martin was sure he might see blood drip out of the corner of their mouths; their faces shriveled up with the charred remains of flesh thrown into the fire until they weren’t human at all. There were monsters in the sun, staring at Martin with missing eyes and gaping mouths and yelling, taunting, teasing him , asking for help.

Take a breath, close your eyes.

None of it is real.

Those two children weren’t the only regrets he had. No, he had failed all three of his siblings, not just two. He’d failed his own older brother as well, and every memory he had of being some wide-eyed kid with big dreams, talking for hours on end with that brother of his made him sick.

No, it made him angry.

That man was a bastard.

And it was true that Martin had no idea how much of a bastard his older brother was. That man, whom for the sake of the narrative will be known as Ozzy; though surely you, Reader, know his true name. Ozzy had known from the start he was meant to hurt things. He had known this since the tender age of six, when he’d gone straight to his room after his brother was born and shoved his safety scissors into the eyes of his rabbit. He had watched the blood run, an exhilaration in his chest that he hadn’t felt before.

Ozzy had buried the rabbit by the wayside of the lake out back, and then had gone to meet baby Martin for the first time.

But Martin himself, now as he sat in the front seat of his van and took his new family across the country, felt a sense of accomplishment, an untroubled buoyancy that Ozzy would never be able to experience.

Martin was happy.

He pulled the van into a motel as it appeared in his vision, and without waking his family he made sure their stay was paid for. And then he was back, strewn over the front seats as he watched his family sleep. They looked incredibly peaceful like this, which is why Martin hardly slept; he wanted to see them happy and relaxed.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment it seemed he might sleep.

A whimper ran through the van.

Martin was climbing back up to his feet, sniffing around to find the source. It was a nightmare for sure. He found the perpetrator in seconds; Vogel always had on that terrible, scared face when he had bad dreams.

Martin jumped out of the passenger side, and pulled the side door of the van open as quietly ad he could. By the now pale orange light of the sky, he managed to pull Vogel out of his nest and onto the dried grass under their feet.

“Boy, hey.” Martin draped his jacket over the poor boy's shoulder. “Hey baby bird, come-”

“No!” Vogel awoke with a resounding yell, flinching back and banging his head on the van. There was an echo as the noise bounced off of the vehicle and onto the building, weaving through the trees. “No! N-”

“Hey Vogel, breathe.” Martin kept his voice quiet, one hand on Vogel's chest to try and steady him.

Vogel registered the warmth of Martin’s hand, and the terror started to drip and leak until he could feel it falling away. Blue, that was that he saw. It was generally regarded as a foolproof anxiety medication to live with loving, caring people who could eat fear.

Of course, that depended on who you were in the first place. If you were Amanda, you were set for life. If you were a bad guy, you were screwed.

Vogel collapsed into Martin’s arms, and a sob worked its way from his throat. It came out in strangled heaps; he closed his eyes.

“Breathe it, little bird.”

That was Gripps’ voice. The others had been awoken by Vogel’s screams, each and every one of them sitting up with wide eyes as they waited to see the danger, gathering up the chaos in their chest to unleash it on the nearest threat. But of course they had found none, met only by the sobs coming from their young friend. Gripps slipped off of the ledge of the van, pulling a blanket down with him.

The Beast, though she was now known as ‘Bow, jumped off after him. She hated it when Vogel cried; why must he do it so often?

“Birdy sad.” Her english was on the incline. “Be not.”

“We got him, ‘Bow.” Martin cast his eyes over to her, giving a small nod. She nodded back, the movement much more exaggerated than his had been.

“Hey?” Amanda’s head popped out of the van. Her eyes widened when she saw Vogel. “What’s wrong? Who’s dying?”

“Blackwing,” Martin said quietly. 

“Oh.”

Amanda opened her mouth, fully intent on speaking again and yet… there was nothing. How could there be? Amanda had nothing to say about Blackwing; she knew nothing. She wasn’t going to ask her boys about the monsters that haunted them, so if she really wanted to know then she would wait for them to tell her. Trauma wasn’t something you could just ask about, and Amanda Brotzman was more acutely aware of it than most, despite having a minimal amount.

Minimal; she wasn’t void of it.

Vogel clung even tighter to Martin, like he could banish the nightmares from his mind somehow. Martin was only a man though, and all he could do was hold him.

“We got ya’, baby bird.”

Though sometimes, Martin doubted how much they really did.

Vogel fell quickly into another slumber, more restless this time despite the company of his family. Cross pulled the sleeping man into his arms, sharing yet another look with Martin.

They couldn't stop the nightmares.

They knew they couldn't stop the nightmares.

Somehow that made it worse, every single one of them soaking in the knowledge that there was little they could do to rid Vogel of the bad dreams; to rid themselves of the dreams they pretended not to have.

Martin turned away from Cross.

Cross’ nightmares were not of a violent sort, and any outsider would call them a gift. At least at first. They were made of brightly lit rooms, sunlight pouring in through open windows to illuminate the home. The couch was always blue, and Cross always was sitting with a slice of pizza in his hand; the couch was always blue, the pizza was always there, and it was always, always sunny. Then he would look over, and a boy would be sitting there next to him. It would hit Cross like a brick to the face; this boy had been there the whole time. 

His mouth was moving, but no sound came out. Cross found this odd, so he tried to ask-

He couldn't make any noise either.

It would continue this way for quite awhile, and as time went on the boy got further and further away. Eventually, Cross was on an empty couch. He would awake without a sound, and he was the least likely to wake anyone. Though the others could still tell if he dreamt of it, because they would awake later to him tapping obsessively; a grounding method.

Gripps’ dreams were graphic, but violence wasn't exactly a key theme. The man considered violence to be an act, something one committed, to see only the aftermath wasn't violence at all.

It was anger. It was grief and shock and your throat closing in on itself, watching as the world moved around you even though you yourself were trapped.

He would be stuck in his dreams, that was a given. Trapped. He couldn't move, but the world moved around him instead. He saw the hanging entrails, the little faces of his nieces and nephews stuck in an eternal scream.

Gripps tried to close his eyes.

Gripps woke up from these dreams just as quietly as Cross, his body tensing and jerking as he still tried to escape the sights. But then one of his family would shift in their sleep, perhaps closing in a little, and he would relax.

Vogel's dreams were the loudest.

Loud.

Brash.

Painful.

Scary.

It was always dark, always dark, and there was always a monster in that darkness. The darkness moved and disintegrated, morphing into faces that laughed and jeered and bit into his skin.

Laugh.

Laugh.

Teeth.

Breathe.

Vogel wasn't actually asleep as he laid in Cross’ arms. He kept his eyes shut though, taking quiet breaths. That's all he needed to do; breathe. He pulled closer to Cross, and took yet another breath.

Martin didn't like talking about his nightmares, and not even a busy narrator could get their hands on them. Martin was a reserved man. He didn't talk about his past and certainly not the family he was born into. So as his family, his real family, sat and chatted he wandered off across the street. 

A quiet little shop.

The building looked run down, which was due to the business not having seen many customers. It relied mainly on those who stayed at the motel, and it was that and only that that kept them open. Martin pushed through the door, stepping into the artificial light. It paled his face. He looked sickly. The person behind the counter looked up as the bell above the door rung to acknowledge Martin’s existence. He peered through squinted red eyes at the tall, disheveled looking man, and he shrugged. 

Whatever was going on, the cashier didn’t want to know. He just needed the money from this shitty job to pay back his fucking dealer and be done with this shit.

Martin smiled, and walked around the wet floor sign to get to where he needed to be. He wandered over not to the beer aisle, but to the candy one. Vogel needed something sweet when he got like this, so that was what Martin was going to get. He grabbed an Airhead at first, but was that sweet enough?

No, of course not.

Martin pulled out one of those odd candy ropes instead, so full of sugar that it probably would have made Martin sick. This seemed ideal for his purposes. He grabbed chocolate bar too; Amanda was on her period, she’d need it. But what else could he get? Rarely did he pay for things, but he certainly had the money for it. It was stolen money, but it was money.

“Fuck!”

There was a loud, ear-splitting crash as someone else - a newcomer, as the bell above the door whispered in Martin’s ear - slipped and fell into a display. Martin sighed; the stranger hadn’t seen the wet floor sign, probably.

How fucking inconvenient.

Martin threw the snacks onto the front counter, gesturing for the cashier to ring it up as he stepped over the wet floor sign. He held out his hand for the stranger, a little impatient-

Oh fuck no. Oh fucking christ. Martin pulled back in surprise, his eyes going wide. What was this? Was he supposed to do something about this?

Doctor Reese Mann was holding his head, which was in a considerable amount of pain. 

Martin remembered him, if only vaguely. He had worked at Blackwing for a period of time directly before 2000, and again in 2016 when the program was called back into affect. He’d worked with Project Incubus very rarely, but the time - or times., everyone knows the universe is an unreliable narrator. - he had were incidents that had worked in his favor. Perhaps the most important one of all was when Vogel, a very small and comparatively new subject, had become ill from not being fed.

Martin, Cross and Gripps didn’t get sick anymore, and they hadn’t since they were very little. But when they were children, it had been very easy to become sick if they hadn’t eaten at least once a week. Of course, none of the three of them had been captured until their teen years, or even early twenties, so Blackwing hadn’t known.

Of course they hadn’t, they were useless.

So when they were starved out, Vogel became very sick very quickly.

As the doctor, Reese Mann had done his best to take care of it… and he actually did rather well. Vogel was returned in decent health, and Reese was now the only staff member that could come near them without greeting the soft hands of death.

Of course, this wasn’t the 1999 anymore; this was 2019, and Martin wasn’t a pissy twenty six year old with a grudge against humanity, one who could do nothing against Blackwing. Now he was an anarchist with a bite.

“You fall this much?” He raised an eyebrow, still not offering his hand. 

“Typically.” Reese huffed; he was rubbing his eyes, and couldn’t see Martin. “I’m fine.”

“Ya’ sure? Nearly gone and killed yourself.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Reese gave a quiet, breathy laugh as he took his hands away and reached for his glasses strewn on the floor. “I’m clumsy, yeah, the world knows. Let’s just move past- holy shit.”

Martin’s smile turned into a mischievous type of grin as Reese stared up at him. His voice as had failed him and Reese, now lost for words, struggled to find any.

“I noticed,” Martin said after a moment.

He reached for his snacks, nodding at the cashier. Then he turned back to Reese, taking a moment to size him up.

“Boyfriend here?”

“No.”

“Good.” Martin shook out his jacket, and made his way to the door. “Bye.”

“What?” 

Reese opened his mouth to say something, but Martin never heard it as the door shut behind him. He couldn’t help but laugh, if only to himself. What were the chances of that, meeting that doctor here? The answer was most likely some astronomical statistic, but it wasn’t as if the universe cared about something so trivial as numbers. This is of course excluding the very coveted and important number of forty two.

But Martin wasn’t worried about the numbers either. He had one plan, and one plan only; to take care of his family. To keep them safe.

And tonight, keeping them safe looked like a bag of candy.


End file.
